


The Terror that Flies-by-Night

by Daegaer



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels, Demons, Gen, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-06-02
Updated: 2003-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-05 15:11:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley wakes up with <i>different</i> wings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Terror that Flies-by-Night

_Dee-dee-dee. Dee-dee-dee. Dee-de---_

Crowley reached out and whacked the alarm clock across the room. Morning already. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. His back was _killing_ him. After a moment he realised why. He was lying on his blessed wings. The only times he ever woke up with wings he'd been having dreams about falling, but he couldn't remember dreaming at all the previous night. He stiffly rolled to the edge of the bed and stood up. Ow. Getting pins and needles in your wings was not a pleasant experience. He yawned hugely and stretched, flexing the wings out as far as they'd go. Ungh. That was a bit better. He shuffled into the bathroom and flung cold water in his face. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he bent back over the basin, and shot upright. What the hell? He stared in the mirror as he slowly half spread the wings. What the fuck? He should have seen a rather tousled mass of white feathers, given that he'd been sleeping on them. But instead he was seeing a creased, black leathery mass. He brought his left wing around sharply, knocking the toothpaste and facewash to the floor. He felt it and stared at it uncomprehendingly. He had leathery wings. Like a fucking bat. Like the fucking humans thought fucking demons' fucking wings were. Thick fucking leather. He examined the right wing as well, just in case. Shit. Maybe he was dreaming, he thought. He poked at his left wing with a suddenly clawed finger. Ow. Shit. _OK_ , he thought. _It was probably something I ate. They'll be back to normal in a while._ He'd make the wings vanish, and would check on them later. They'd be feathery again later. He concentrated, and moaned when the wings stayed obstinately in view.

After a few minutes of mindless cursing, he decided he might as well get washed and dressed and go out. People couldn't see him if he didn't want them to, so it didn't really matter if he was wandering round like an enormous bat. He'd go about his day's work, and he would absolutely not go near Soho unless the wings continued to misbehave. He squashed himself into the shower. At least he didn't have to worry about getting his feathers waterlogged. It was when he went back into his bedroom that he realised an obvious flaw in his plan. It was going to be difficult to put a suit on at the moment. Even if no one could see him, the idea of wandering round half-naked offended his sense of style. It had been a blessed long time since he had worn the sort of clothes that took an extra pair of limbs into account. All right, it looked like he'd be wearing traditional costume today. He closed his eyes and thought of wing-friendly clothing. He opened his eyes, looked down at himself and hissed. With a wave of his hand he materialised a large set of mirrors so he could be properly furious. His subconscious mind was an old fashioned bastard he thought, glaring at his reflection. He snarled at the image of himself in pleated leather skirt, sandals laced up to mid calf and the crossed sword and quiver belts slung across his back. He was even holding a blessed bow, for fuck's sake. He looked like a skinny, _incredibly_ pissed-off Valentine's card cherub.

"I _meant_ ," he snarled at the reflection, "some kind of tunic thing. Short. That I could wear with trousers."

He gestured at the reflection and sagged when it didn't change at all. Oh - no, it had changed. His skirt now had a tasteful design picked out in silver round the hem. And the quiver seemed to be decorated in - fuck. Elvish.

"I hate myself," he moaned.

He stalked up and down the sitting room, fulminating. He was _not_ going out like this. Not even invisible. Not even the fact that he really had very good legs would make him go out like this. Not even his most stylish sunglasses could save this outfit. There was nothing for it; he was going to have to ask for a favour. He picked up the phone and dialled Aziraphale's number. It rang and rang. That was one normal thing about the morning, at least. The angel would have to drag his mind into the modern world, remember a few charming anecdotes about that nice Alexander Graham Bell, and finally realise that the strange ringing noise was the conventional way a phone alerted you to the fact that someone wanted to talk to you.

"Hello?" Aziraphale said cautiously.

"Can you come over right away?" Crowley said. "Hi."

"Oh. It's rather early," Aziraphale said, obviously munching on something. "I was just about to open the shop."

"Aziraphale, I want to see you _now_. If you come over now you can legitimately _not_ open the shop," Crowley said cunningly. "Book-buyers will have been thwarted for another day."

"On my way!" the angel trilled, and slammed the phone down.

Crowley passed the time shooting pigeons out of the sky. He gave himself double points if he managed to get more than one per arrow.

Forty minutes later, he was fretting. Aziraphale's bookshop wasn't that far. What was _keeping_ him? Forty-five minutes later there was a knock at the door. Crowley fitted his last arrow to the bow and drew a bead on the doorway.

"Come in, Aziraphale," he yelled.

Aziraphale opened the door and came in, his hands full of the morning paper, cups of fancy coffee and a bag of pastries. Crowley _knew_ it. The bastard was a shopaholic.

"Good morn -eek!" Aziraphale said.

Crowley was not at all surprised to see that not even having a deadly weapon pointed at him could make Aziraphale drop foodstuffs. He lowered the bow. And spread the wings fully in as dramatic a fashion as he could.

"Holy sh-eek," Aziraphale murmured. "Crowley! You look -- different."

"Not much gets past that angelic eyesight, does it?" Crowley said sourly.

"Er. You look like you're about to go forth and lay waste to civilisations. You're not, are you?"

"They were like this when I woke up," Crowley said. "And when I tried to get dressed --" he gestured dismissively at his outfit.

Aziraphale put his purchases down on the coffee table and came closer, an expression of wonder on his face.

"May I?" he said, waving a hand vaguely at the wings.

"Be my guest," Crowley said. "Any ideas on why this happened?"

"I don't know," Aziraphale said, poking at the leathery membranes. "Have you been moulting? Are you off your food? Does it hurt when I do this?"

" _Ow_. Watch it. I've been in perfect health. I'm telling you, it was a complete surprise."

"It's very -- demonic," Aziraphale said after a moment. "Perhaps it's a new public relations drive from your people?"

"This is not good PR," Crowley snapped. "I look ridiculous. And every time I try to make this outfit a little less stupid, it gets worse."

"I like the sandals," Aziraphale said mildly. "Don't get so steamed up, my dear. The wings are -- impressive. Very impressive. I think they're quite something. Look, you've got big poison spurs on the end of the struts -- _very_ evil."

"I _do_?" Crowley said in alarm. "Because I didn't before you arrived."

He examined his reflection again. Aziraphale was right. He was looking more and more like some fundamentalist's dream demon. In fact -- he leant closer.

"Aziraphale," he said as calmly as he could. "Do I appear to have scales, would you say?"

"Not too many," Aziraphale said consolingly. "But they suit you. Honestly. And you don't have horns or hooves or a tail. I'd tell you if you did, you know that, don't you?"

Crowley swallowed hard and managed to keep his composure. He did his best to resume his favourite form, but only got scalier. Aziraphale patted his back.

"Don't worry. I'm sure it's all for the best. Would you like some help taking these armaments off?"

Crowley nodded and Aziraphale unbuckled the belts and dropped them to the ground. He went back to poking at the wings, exclaiming over their apparent strength, and subtle shading, and how _sharp_ the spurs were, and how unlike _feathers_ , and on, and on and on. Crowley stared unhappily into space. His gaze gradually focused as he became aware that Aziraphale wasn't so much examining his wings as _touching_ them. In a way Crowley found highly disturbing. He jumped round and faced Aziraphale.

"What are you doing?"

Aziraphale smiled lazily and reached up over his shoulder to run a finger along a still outspread wing. Crowley folded them with a decisive movement.

"I wouldn't have thought you were the shy type," Aziraphale smirked. "Stop acting like a little girl. Nice skirt, by the way."

"I think you've had too much coffee," Crowley said in alarm. "Why don't you sit down?"

Aziraphale grabbed him by the arms. Crowley struggled, but the bastard was a lot stronger than he looked. They should be evenly matched, Crowley thought in horror, but he couldn't break free.

"Stop messing round," Aziraphale hissed. "Why else did you ask me over?"

He grinned through a mouthful of sharp fangs, and spread vast, dark bat-wings. Crowley screeched.

And sat up in bed, his heart pounding.

He looked round wildly. Everything was dark and quiet. As he jumped out of bed every light in the flat came on. He ran into the sitting room. No big mirrors, no psycho angel. And it was still night. He felt at his back. No wings at the moment. Closing his eyes, he stretched fully, feeling the tips of his wings brush lightly against the walls. He carefully opened his eyes and looked first to one side then the other. Snowy white feathers, his own snowy white feathers. He swept them forward and petted them over and over in relief.

Even though he felt very silly, he sat up on the back of the sofa with his beautiful, feathery wings wrapped round him till it was time to get up. And he left the lights on all night.


End file.
